


90 Days

by Syllfael



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Hoyt is a piece of shit, Luda Mae is playing matchmaker, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Thomas is a sweetheart, body neutral reader, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 19,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28204416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllfael/pseuds/Syllfael
Summary: In exchange for the lives of your friends, you agree to spend 3 months with the Hewitts.
Relationships: Leatherface | Thomas Brown Hewitt/You
Comments: 20
Kudos: 139





	1. Part 1

_You'd flung open the back door of the little shop too forcefully, and it hit something on the other side. The sound of previously-stacked crates hitting the floor was loud; you'd immediately realized what you'd done, and lifted your gaze to the only other person in the area to apologize, but the words died in your throat at the sight of his face.  
_

_To your credit, you'd only stared for a second before realizing you were being rude and forcing your gaze to shift elsewhere. There was a mask hanging by one of his ears - it seemed as if he'd been adjusting it when you came through and bumped into him - which he quickly pulled on properly and secured, looking highly distressed. Apologies began falling from your mouth, almost nonsensically, and you made a point of softening your expression, speaking sweetly. You couldn't help it - the fear in his eyes, the way he turned away from you in shame... it broke your heart.  
_

You're jarred from the intrusive memory when the woman repeats her question. You crash back into your own body, once again agonizingly aware of the multiple wounds scattered around your frame as well as the physical and emotional fatigue from the long, drawn out war you'd been waging for what felt like forever, though in reality it had just been a very long handful of hours.

You adjust your grip on the raised shovel, blinking blood out of one eye, gaze locked across the several yards you'd managed to put between your group and theirs. You attempt to steady your panting breath to reply, but one of _them_ beats you to it.

"What the _fuc_ -" he begins angrily, looking at the woman, but she flings a hand out, effectively punching him in the gut and ending his outburst in a _whoosh_ of breath. You take advantage of the reprieve to study the group across from you.

The sheriff (if that's what he really was - you doubted it) is glaring at the woman with his good eye; the other was swollen shut, just one of several souvenirs you'd given him during your many clashes over the last few hours. He's almost as bloody as you are, and you're pretty sure you'd broken a couple of his fingers. Regret swells in your chest - you wish you'd broken them all.

The other man, the huge one in the mask, from earlier... you'd mostly avoided locking horns with him, for your own safety, preferring to outmaneuver him through either speed, stealth, or smarts. The chainsaw was currently idle, and lowered. Despite everything, you'd be lying if you said you wanted to hurt him; that heartbreaking expression was burned into your mind as much as the scenes of gore in the house. He'd been quiet all this time, though he'd seemed taken aback by the question the woman (his mother?) had asked you.

The woman... _seemed_ nice. Ultimately, you had no idea what was going on in this town and didn't trust anyone, but she certainly hadn't made any moves to hurt you - and there was a chance she had some ulterior motive that was going to save your life. She was waiting, patiently but expectantly, for your answer.

Your gaze flickers between the three people in front of you, intense and sharp despite your exhaustion. You risk a quick glance behind you at your three friends - well, two friends, one family member. They hadn't come through unscathed, but they'd come _through_. You'd been prepared to die for them during this entire ordeal - nearly had, a couple times - and you weren't about to let them slip through your fingers now, after working so hard to keep them safe.

"You're telling me you'll let my friends go, _and_ guarantee my safety, if I stay with you for three months? Why? What do I have that you need?" You nearly snarl, wariness and weariness clashing in your tone.

The woman pauses, seeming to deliberate. Her eyes shift briefly to the large man beside her and then back to you, and a slow dawning begins in the back of your mind.

"Compassion," she answers. The sheriff turns his head to spit blood from his mouth, expression darkly furious - good, maybe you'd knocked out a few teeth as well - but he stays silent. The giant is shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other; the woman reaches out to put a soothing hand on his arm. "It looks like you made a bit of a connection with Thomas here - he's been avoiding hurting you, _and don't think I haven't noticed_ ," she shoots at him as he shuffles his feet and looks away. "He needs - well, a friend, if nothing else. I'm smart enough to know an opportunity when I see it. Think of it as a trial run; you're free to leave after the three months are up, if you like."

Honestly, you're sold before she finishes speaking. Not for the sake of the chainsaw-wielding giant (you may not want to hurt him, but you don't exactly feel any affection for him either), but because you understand, with grim certainty, that you're not getting out of here alive otherwise. Your party _would_ \- you'd make sure of that, no matter what the cost - but for yourself... any chance was better than none at all. You set your jaw. You were smart enough to know an opportunity when you saw one, too.

"Deal."

DAY 1


	2. Part 2

Day 8 

The details had been hashed out: after an adjustment period, you would be able to use the phone to call home a couple times a week. You would help around the house during your stay. And your life was forfeit if anybody called the police.

Your friends begged you not to stay, but they couldn't stop you. The looming, ominous presence of the chainsaw was enough to prevent any attempt at an uprising, and you wouldn't waver in your decision. Their car keys had been handed back, and they'd removed your luggage from the vehicle. You promised to see them in a few months. Your sister started crying as they turned to leave. 

Now, here you were, locked in a single, sparingly furnished room with little to occupy your time. They hadn't let you have any of your possessions other than your clothes - just for now, the woman had assured you.

You'd been introduced properly: the woman was Luda Mae, the large man was Thomas, and the "sheriff" apparently went by Hoyt. There was another older man named Monty that you hadn't encountered previously, who seemed nice enough, all things considered. Luda Mae and Thomas were the only members of the family you'd seen since entering your room; Monty apparently had no desire to interact with you and Hoyt wasn't _allowed_ to, by popular vote.

They treated you like a feral cat. Anything brought to you was laid inside the door, they didn't enter your space, and they moved slowly and cautiously in your presence. You didn't blame them - after all, they only had to glace at Hoyt to see what you were capable of, even unarmed - and you certainly didn't mind. Luda Mae escorted you to and from the bathroom as needed, and otherwise you were left alone, aside from mealtimes.

Thomas brought the large majority of your meals to you, and waited while you ate. You assumed this was his mother's idea since he was so incredibly awkward about it - he would knock (surprisingly softly), slowly open the door when you gave the okay, and then lay the plate in the middle of the room and retreat to the closed door. You would grab your food, take it back to your bed with you, and eat it while watching him. He would press himself back against the door as much as possible, as if hoping he could phase through it, and try to shrink in on his own enormous frame. He refused to look in your direction, choosing instead to stare at his own hands, which were constantly in motion. Clenching, unclenching, picking at the fabric of his clothes, folding, unfolding. 

You tired of it quickly. It was maddening, and besides that, you actually felt a little bad that he felt so uncomfortable.

So you started talking to him. Little things, whatever came to mind. He never spoke back to you, or even seemed to react to your words, but his hands stilled. And in your situation, even a one-sided conversation was better than sitting in silence for the umpteenth hour.

He gradually began to loosen up. He still didn't talk, but he would move slightly away from the entrance and sit on the floor. He would face your direction. He would even occasionally glance at you. You were thawing too - beginning to talk to him because you wanted to be friendly, rather than to alleviate the gloom of his presence.

So today, when he comes to your room between mealtimes and lingers, standing, by the door - you're curious. You wait expectantly, but he doesn't say anything, just glances back and forth between you and his size 800 shoes. You notice his hands are behind his back.

"Well, this is a surprise... hiding something?" You ask with a teasing lilt. He gets flustered when you use that tone - it's fun, so you keep doing it. As expected, he looks fully away from you for a moment (blushing, you imagine, but it's impossible to tell under the mask), but recovers quickly for once. He returns his gaze to your direction and brings his hands out in front of him. He's holding a book - a paperback you recognize. A small jolt of happiness zips through you for the first time since arriving here.

"Is that for me? I can have my things back?" You ask hopefully, already rising to take the book from him. He shifts and glances behind him to the door, then raises one finger in front of his mask. You stop a few feet away from him. "Ohhh, it's a secret."

A slow grin starts to break out on your face.

"So I'm _not_ allowed to have it, you're _sneaking_ it to me and _breaking the rules_ ," you gasp, feigning incredulity. This close, you can see his eyes widen, and they meet yours for probably the first time ever. You crumble quickly under the sincere, anxious gaze. "It's okay, I'm not going to get you into trouble. I've been so bored, I'm very happy to have something to read. Thank you."

You take another couple of steps and reach out for the book, moving carefully so you don't startle him. He freezes when you come within reach, likely not even breathing, and continues this impersonation of a marble statue until you've moved away again, book held lovingly to your chest. He retreats quickly from the room, as if he's had as much interaction with you as he can bear for the time being.

You sit back down with your book, smiling to yourself. Life here just got more tolerable, and even better - he's starting to trust you, just as planned.


	3. Part 3

DAY 15

You still weren't allowed out of the room, but it was easier to accept now that you had something to do. Thomas had smuggled in the remainder of your tiny hoard of reading material over the past couple days - you wished you had packed more, but you hadn't been expecting to get kidnapped, of course. 

There had been some commotion early yesterday morning, and you hadn't seen Thomas since. Luda Mae had brought your last few meals, and wouldn't give any details when you asked where he was - she just said he was fine, but busy, and not to worry yourself. (She was pleased you were asking, though, you could tell.) 

Around mid-afternoon, you look up curiously from your novel when someone knocks - it wasn't a usual time for anyone to be checking in. You're even more curious when the door swings open and Thomas enters, looking exhausted. 

"Hey, there you are. I missed you at meal times - Luda Mae doesn't stick around to keep me company like you do," you say, your tone a hybrid of teasing and sincere. He stops short as if stunned, and starts fidgeting with his hands, gaze focused pointedly away from you. You smile; it seems you'd short-circuited him with such a straightforward confession. You keep talking to give him time to stabilize. "How're things? I was told you've been busy."

The return to normalcy of tone and topic appears to help him settle. He glances up at you before reaching into his pocket and pulling out another paperback - not one of yours, unless you'd forgotten about one. You release a little hum of surprise and get up to take it from him, but he pauses halfway through handing it over. You notice he's looking at the cover intently. You drop your outstretched arm back to your side and creep in nearer to him, leaning a bit to see the cover.

" _Phantom of the Opera_ , huh?" you question softly. He startles badly despite your low voice; he must not have noticed you move in so close. He tries to back up but he's already right against the door. You smile up at him encouragingly and take the smallest step back. "That's a good one. Think it looks interesting? Want me to give you a summary?"

His eyes widen a bit and he nods eagerly, holding the book out towards you. He seems more comfortable (or maybe just distracted), but you still back up another step before sitting down on the floor and motioning for him to do the same. He follows suit quickly, sitting back against the door. 

You begin by describing the characters and premise, and he seems captivated immediately. You eye him critically; he looked tired, as you'd noted before, not to mention dirty and sweaty. He even seemed a little short of breath, like he'd run in here after some rigorous work without taking a break to rest or freshen up, presumably just to deliver the book - from wherever he'd acquired it. (You have an unpleasant sneaking suspicion, but decide to ignore it for now.)

"Tell you what... you look like you could use a break, and it's not like I have anything else going on. Want me to read it to you?"

You've never seen the man smile before, and you still haven't - but seeing him now, you're able to imagine what a smile would look like on him, even with the mask covering most of his face. It's so close that your heart flutters. He nods again, more tentatively than before, as if afraid to get his hopes up. 

The light, butterfly-wings feeling in your ribcage dies out abruptly, replaced by the dropping of a stone into the pit of your stomach as his heart-wrenching expression from the first time you saw him flashes through your mind, and a couple realizations hit you in one fell swoop. First, that his interest in the book probably had more to do with the masked man on the cover than anything else - and if that was the case, you were going to hate telling him the ending. Second, and worse: he'd probably been ostracized, maybe even bullied, for most of his life, and you'd be shocked if he hadn't ended up with some pretty major trust issues because of it. He was likely worried that you were making fun of him at best or playing a mean trick on him at worst.

As for making fun of him, or being intentionally mean, you would never. As for tricking him... well. It was part of the plan to ensure your own survival, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't starting to feel guilty. You decide to swallow your trepidation for now, and begin reading instead. 

Thomas listens raptly, eventually becoming so comfortable that he leans fully back against the door, hands idle in his lap - his head even starts to droop, causing you to stop several times to make sure he's still awake before continuing. 

You only get three chapters in before there's another knock at the door. Thomas snaps to attention and jumps to his feet faster than you would have thought possible for a man his size. You remain where you are, but fling the book under the bed, just in case he'd get in trouble for giving it to you.

The door opens and Luda Mae pokes her head in, first eying your position on the floor before turning her head to find Thomas partially concealed behind the door.

"Gracious, _there_ you are! You took off like a bat outta hell right after finishin' your job - figured you were headin' for the shower, but apparently not," she chides him, then turns to you, "and what're you doin' on the floor, dear?"

"Just sat down so we could talk," you shrug. Luda Mae pauses for a moment, then gestures for Thomas to follow her.

"Well come on," she huffs when he's reluctant to move, "you need to clean up before dinner, you two can chat more later."

She holds the door open and Thomas exits, glancing back at you one more time in the process.


	4. Part 4

DAY 20

You were finally allowed to make occasional phone calls. They were brief, but your family had been relieved to hear from you - you used the existence of your impromptu two-person book club to reassure them that things were okay during your detainment. You'd made it about one-third of the way through the book, and Story Time with Thomas was becoming the highlight of your day.

After hanging up the phone, Luda Mae starts to escort you back to your room, but stops abruptly at the stairs.

"Hmm. How would you feel about takin' a little walk, dear? I can get Tommy to escort you. Get a little fresh air?" she suggests, already turning the opposite direction, presumably to find Thomas. 

"Actually, yes, that would be great. Thank you," you answer politely, amazed at your luck, following her to a door at the other end of the house. She opens it and calls down. Thomas emerges soon after, looking surprised to see you.

"Take our guest for a stroll, please, Tommy. Just don't be too long - supper's almost ready."

So, here you were - walking a dusty road in the unreasonable Texas heat of mid-spring, trying to keep up with your companion's long strides. 

"Uh, hey. It's not a race, you know," you speak up finally, when your breaths are starting to come harder and sweat is beading on your skin. Thomas stops suddenly and turns, taking in your exhaustion with an apologetic look. "It's okay, your legs are just longer than mine. Let's shoot for an easy meander, alright?" You pant, laughing. He nods and starts walking again, albeit much slower.

Conversations with him were always one-sided, but at least they were pretty comfortable by now, and you were getting better at reading his body language and expressions. You walked and talked for a bit - it seemed like you were just wandering, but you figured Thomas knew where you were going. 

You were filling the silence with random thoughts and observations when you noticed the footsteps beside you come to a halt. You turn and see Thomas looking out over the field next to you. The grass is kind of tall, blocking some of your view, but you don't see anything of note from your perspective. 

"What's -" you start, but Thomas darts away into the field before you can finish. He didn't look back or gesture for you to follow, and the tall grass looks suspicious for ticks (or snakes, if you're really unlucky), so you stay put, shuffling your feet in the dirt while you wait. You watch him stride purposefully into the middle of the field and lean over, then turn and head back your way.

You look up at him questioningly when he reemerges, and he holds something out to you. It's a cluster of deep purple flowers. You take them, stunned.

"You went to get these for me? These are bluebonnets, right? Wow, they're really pretty. Thank you!" You beam at him, and he glances away, shuffling backwards. "We better head back and get these into some water. It's too bad we don't have a pot with us, it would've been nice to take the whole plant. The blooms would last longer that way."

You finish your sentence and realize that you had grabbed his hand mid-speech, pulling him with you as you turned around to head back the other direction. You suppress any reaction, instead turning slightly to see if he's okay with the contact (you did it without thinking, but he hadn't pulled his hand away, which you assume is a good sign). His eyes are locked on your clasped hands, and - oh god, is he blushing, or is it just the heat?

You knew he flustered easily, but _blushing_? This enormous man? Surely not. That would be... far too endearing.

His eyes flicker up to your face, startled to see you looking at him, and you quickly face forward again, hoping you hadn't scared him off - but he doesn't let go of your hand. So you keep walking like that, though now you're both flustered and all conversation is dead. 

_At least the silence is pretty comfortable_ , you think, and then his hand twitches a little in yours and you start thinking about his hands - realizing how absolutely huge they are, feeling the rough callouses, and getting a sense of the strength of them every time he adjusts his grip.

By the time you make it back to the house, your hands are so sweaty that you're relieved to break the contact. You risk a glance at his face, and he looks... disappointed? Before you can be sure, he notices you looking and his features smooth into neutrality. 

Once you're inside, Thomas retreats quickly to the basement and Luda Mae fetches you a vase, smiling knowingly. You take the flowers back to your room and sit staring at them, thinking, while you cool off. 

He was sweet, and adorably awkward. You already knew that, and it gave you pangs of regret every time you remembered you were only getting close to him for your own safety. That you'd be leaving forever as soon as your three months were up.

... Right?

You remember his expression when you offered to read to him. His blush earlier. The way he shuffles his feet and fidgets with his hands when he's nervous. The flowers. Your brief glimpse of his face in the beginning. Affection floods in, unwillingly. Then you think about his hands again, his expressive blue eyes, the width of his shoulders, and start getting warm again for entirely different reasons.

You could handle affection - there was no need to hide it since it was useful to your situation, and it was new, shallow, easy enough to override if needed. 

Attraction, though... that could cause some trouble.


	5. Part 5

DAY 25

You had a new book (well, new _ish_ , courtesy of Thomas) open on your lap, but you kept reading the same paragraph over and over. You couldn't focus. Things had been - not awkward, exactly, more like... _charged_ , between the two of you since your stroll the other day. You gaze wistfully at the bluebonnets on the small table, which were beginning to wilt. He'd stopped spending any extra time in your room, even to read; he just hung around long enough for you to eat, and he was a ball of nerves the whole time. You figured you'd spooked him with the hand-holding and he needed some time to relax again, which is why you're surprised when, a few hours before dinnertime, your door begins to open.

It doesn't register as odd that no one had knocked until Hoyt steps over the threshold, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end _instantly_. His tone starts out light, but that doesn't fool you.

"Well, lookit you, all curled up an' content like a housecat. Too bad this ain't your house," he ends in a scowl, then takes a step closer. You practically throw the book to the ground and jump to your feet, unwilling to be caught in a disadvantageous position. 

"Get the _fuck_ away from me, you malicious piece of _trash_ ," you growl, tone immediately dripping venom, leaping forward to block him from getting any further into the room. He stops, but the smirk on his face doesn't falter. 

"Oho, here come the claws," he says, returning to a darkly playful tone for a second, before dropping it suddenly in favor of guttural ferocity, "I owe you some hurt, you little shit, and there's nobody home to save you," he finishes, and slams the door closed behind him.

Your blood turns to ice as he stares you down, leaning closer by the second. You'd befriended the most _obviously_ dangerous person in the vicinity, and perhaps dropped your guard because of it - forgetting the person most _likely_ to be dangerous. Was it true that the house was empty? You didn't have a weapon and he was blocking the only exit, so if you couldn't call for help either, your options were looking fairly dire. 

Well, fine - if he wanted claws, you'd give them to him. Your fight or flight instinct is kicking in, and you have nowhere to run - so you lunge at him instead.

Despite being caught off guard and pushed backwards, he catches the fist you throw towards his face. So instead you turn, lower your shoulder, and ram him into the door. It rattles on its hinges and his breath leaves him in a _whoosh_. You back up a step and grab the front of his shirt with both hands, intending to slam him backwards again.

"Let's see what else of yours I can break," you growl, but before you can make another move, he throws a wide-armed swing that doesn't quite connect, but does knock you away from him and toward the nearby wall. He follows up quickly, pouncing on you and shoving you back against the wall. 

Before he can get a good grip on you, you stumble to your right and into the little table, which falls over with a bang. The vase shatters on the floor, sending water flying.

You only have a split second to lament the flowers before one of his hands abruptly grabs onto your face; you bite him, hard, and he yanks the hand away with a roar. You lash out with one arm, catching him in the side of the head, but the blow mostly glances off - and the opening it creates allows him to strike out with his other hand and grab you by the throat. He wastes no time in leveraging his grip to slam you back against the wall, quickly caging you in with his body while your head spins. 

Then the door flings open, threatening to come completely off its hinges. Both of you whip your heads in that direction, panting, and the bruising grip on your throat loosens. 

Time slows to a crawl as you watch Thomas' face; the shock first becomes confusion, then fear, then _rage_. You don't even have a chance to sigh in relief at his appearance before he's across the threshold and _yanking_ his uncle off you, practically sending him flying across the room. He doesn't stop there, either - he's on him again in an instant, pinning him to the wall opposite you. 

You register sounds from the doorway and swivel to look; it's Luda Mae and Monty, both shouting, but seemingly unwilling to enter the room. You ignore them and turn back to the conflict just in time to see Hoyt land a blow, his elbow striking Thomas' temple hard enough to cause him to drop the smaller man. Hoyt is yelling too, but you can't make it out, and then he's running your way - he has to pass you to reach the door - but Thomas whirls, catches him right before he reaches you, and all but throws him out into the hallway. His feet leave the ground briefly, momentum overwhelming his movement, but Luda Mae and Monty catch him before he falls to the ground.

Thomas had stopped between you and the door, keeping guard, but you skirt him, reaching out to quickly grab the door and slam it shut. You lock it and turn to face him. You're both panting; his hands are clenched into fists, eyes wild and staring past you, brows furrowed heavily. You remain where you are for a moment, looking at him, trying to decide how to proceed. Finally you approach, carefully.

"Hey. Are you okay?" You ask softly, reaching out to touch his forearm. He startles when you connect, even though your movement had been slow, and finally makes eye contact with you. The anger drains from his face. You hand falls from his arm as he raises it, watching you closely for any sign of resistance. You don't flinch away, and his fingers graze lightly across the side of your neck before settling flat against your skin. Were the red marks starting to show already? His thumb strokes gently back and forth. His eyes are soft and questioning.

"I'm okay," you answer, voice betraying your words with its roughness. "I'm more worried about you - that was a big hit. Sit down," you soothe, pushing against him a little. 

His touch vanishes from your neck and he allows you to guide him to the bed, sitting down on the edge. You remain standing in front of him, just within reach, bringing a hand up slowly toward his face.

"Can I check your head? I won't mess with your mask."

He nods, looking past you again. You lift one hand to cup the side of his face while the other runs through the hair at his temple, parting it so you can check for injury. His eyelids flutter and half-close.

"Well, it'll probably bruise, but it looks okay. Thomas?" Your voice is nearly a whisper. His eyes open back up and meet yours. "Thank you. I, uh, guess I was in trouble there." 

You want to laugh it off, but the way your throat constricts when you try makes you think the sound will come out as a sob instead, so you settle for a shaky exhale. Tears start prickling the corners of your eyes anyway.

His eyes widen, and then his hands are hovering indecisively on either side of you, while he searches your face intensely. You blink, and a couple tears break free and run down your face. Thomas surges forward, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you toward him. He keeps one hand there and wraps the other arm around your back, keeping you flush against his torso and pressing his face to your collarbones.

You hold still, stunned, afraid to move or even breathe. The tears dry on your face and no new ones follow. Finally you shift, gently resting your chin on the top of his head and weaving one hand into his hair. You remain this way for a while - silent, while he rests in the sound of your heartbeat and you steady yourself with rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.


	6. Part 6

Day 30 

The fallout hadn't been as bad as you'd expected. Hoyt was still nursing the bite wound, still bitterly angry at you and mad at Thomas to boot - but Luda Mae was mad at _him_ , which was making his life pretty miserable, so it all evened out.

Thomas seemed to be making up for his recent distance by refusing you let you out of his sight. You suspect this was the reason you'd finally been given the run of the house - he had chores to do, which weren't likely to get done if he was stuck in your room with you. So, instead, you were mostly following him around while he worked.

You helped out as much as you could, but a lot of his jobs were more labor-intensive than you were used to, and he seemed reluctant to let you get your hands dirty. So you mostly just talked to him, did a little reading (you were about halfway through Phantom of the Opera), and enjoyed being out in the sunlight. After some time passed (and with some urging from Luda Mae, telling him you didn't need a bodyguard), he unglued himself from your hip, and you were able to help out around the house more while he was outside.

The days were getting warmer as they passed, and today is the first real scorcher of the season. You're working in the kitchen, where at least there's shade and a few fans going, when Thomas enters. You start to smile at him, planning to offer some water, when you notice something seems off. He's drenched in sweat - more than you would've expected - and seems disoriented. You're already rushing forward in alarm when he stumbles to the sink, doubles over, and pukes. 

You hover until he's done, hands on his shoulders, before gently pulling him away and trying to get him to a chair. He stumbles again and ends up on the floor, propped up against some cabinets. The crash knocks a plate from the counter to the floor and shatters it. 

"Luda Mae!" You yell, tilting his face upward - he's looking at you, so not unconscious, but his eyelids are drooping and his forehead is clammy to the touch when you press your palm against it. You yell again, and finally his mother appears in the doorway.

"What in the world -" she starts in concern, taking in the scene.

"He's overheated - point the fans this way -" you bark, whirling to head toward the fridge, only to find your movement suddenly halted. You turn back - Thomas has reached up and wrapped a hand around your wrist, gentle but firm, looking up at you with what you can only describe as a helpless expression. You kneel quickly to put your face at his level. "I'm not leaving, sweetheart, but we need to get you cooled off, okay?" You soothe urgently, placing your hand over his.

His gaze holds yours for a moment, steadily, and then he lets go. You spin and throw yourself at the fridge, flinging open the freezer and grabbing ice packs, bags of corn, anything useful, and then you're kneeling beside him again, placing cold compresses. 

Luda Mae is there too, hovering, having pointed two fans at him and turned the ceiling fan on its highest setting. Air is rushing through the room, ruffling hair and creating a dull roar.

"What's happening, dear? What do - "

"What the hell's goin' on in here? Why's Tommy on the floor?"

You look briefly over your shoulder to see a scowling Hoyt in the doorway.

"Shut up and go away - no, wait, make yourself useful and bring some cool water," you amend, dabbing at Thomas' forehead with a hand towel. Hoyt doesn't move, and Luda Mae goes for the water in the fridge instead, smacking him on the arm as she passes.

"What, he get too hot out there? Didn't realize you were so delicate, boy," Hoyt says mockingly. Thomas stirs as if trying to get up, but you place a firm hand on his chest, keeping him in place. 

"Heat exhaustion is not a joke, and, again - _shut up and go away_ ," you growl, taking the glass Luda Mae offers when she returns. You turn back to Thomas, tone softening, "can you drink this? Water will help."

He lifts a hand to hold the glass and bring it to his mouth, but it's unsteady, so you keep one of yours on it too.

"Heat exhaustion, not heat stroke?" Luda Mae asks, worry evident in her tone, while Hoyt snorts condescendingly from the doorway.

"No, thank goodness. He's sweating like crazy. Heat stroke victims don't sweat," you inform calmly, helping Thomas finish off the water.

"An' how d'you know all this? You a nurse or somethin'?" Hoyt scoffs. You take a calming breath before answering. You pray his hand still hurts like a bitch.

"My mom is a nurse; this happened to my sister once. Here, more water please," you hand the glass to Luda Mae and then turn toward Hoyt, "and since you refuse to fuck off, you can help me get him to the shower. It'll be easier to cool him off that way."

Hoyt still doesn't move, but he does chuckle. 

"Oh yeah? You gonna hop in with him?"

You're on your feet before he even finishes the question, snarling, "I'm gonna fucking bite you again, you absolute -"

Luda Mae grabs you by the arm and jabs a finger at Hoyt.

" _Enough_ , now, both of you. Charlie, help us get Tommy upstairs right now, or so help me -"

"Alright, jesus, I'm coming," he grumbles, crossing the room to help you get Thomas on his feet.

You make it upstairs with a lot of effort. Hoyt smirks at you until Luda Mae goes in with Thomas to get him into the shower, and then he grumbles like he's disappointed and goes back downstairs. Most of your tension leaves with him. You hear the water start up on the other side of the wall. 

"Cool water, but not cold," you call through the crack in the door. Luda Mae affirms from inside, and then emerges moments later. 

"He seems to be comin' round a bit. Thank you, dear, I don't know what we would've done without you," she says, wringing her hands. 

"Of course. Don't mention it," you answer, wondering if this is where Thomas picked up his overactive hands. 

"I hope that silly boy didn't overwork himself because I..." She trails off with a sigh. "Well, I told him he could spend some extra time with you before dinner if he finished quickly," she finishes, and you... might be blushing a bit. Or maybe it's just the heat.

You clear your throat, unsure how to respond to that, but she saves you the trouble.

"He's asking for you, if you don't mind going in and keeping an eye on him. He's got a towel on," she adds reassuringly. You nod and grip the door handle, managing to catch her muttered "behave yourselves, now," before entering. 

He's sitting on the floor of the bathtub/shower, under the water, with a large towel across his lap. He looks up when you enter; he seems to feel quite a bit better.

You allow yourself exactly three thoughts before throwing them to the ground and grinding them into the dirt:

_1\. That's a lot of man_

_2\. That shower looks extremely small with him in it_

_3\. Would I fit in there too?_

You shake your head to clear it, taking a seat on the floor near the edge of the tub. 

"Well, things have certainly been eventful lately. Is it always like this around here?" You ask, careful to keep your tone light.

His shoulders move, and - you _stare_ , jaw dropping subtly - is he laughing? Yes, he is; you can just make out a low chuckle over the sound of the water. He shakes his head, and you start laughing too - turns out it's contagious.


	7. Part 7

**Day 40**

Over a third of your allotted time here had passed, and you were just now getting the hang of folding fitted sheets.

"There, I said you could do it," Luda Mae encourages, patting your small pile of folded sheets with pride.

"Well, given enough time I suppose anything is possible," you laugh, "not to mention I had a good teacher. I appreciate it."

She smiles, and might even look a little misty-eyed.

"You know, dear, when I asked you to stay with us I wasn't sure what to expect. I saw some potential, and I had some hopes... but I believe it's safe to say you've already exceeded them. And that scare with Thomas... I'm just glad you're here, that's all. I know it was rough, given the circumstances, but I hope you're glad too."

You give that some thought. 'Rough' was putting it mildly, but it's true that things had mellowed significantly since then. Yes, Hoyt was a piece of trash and you didn't care one way or the other for Monty (who mostly avoided you; potentially having seen the bloody results of your various clashes with Hoyt), but you liked Luda Mae, and Thomas...

Well, that was a bit more complicated, and honestly you've been avoiding thinking about that too much. 

"I think so. The circumstances are... odd, sure, but I'm glad I got to know you... and Thomas," you add, dreading the look she was going to give you when you said it. You're right - that quasi-smug expression crosses her features, mixed with genuine joy.

Then the screen door slams as someone enters, cutting off your conversation. Speak of the devil - it's Thomas, and he seems to be in a hurry. He also seems to be holding something, you notice. He rushes straight over to you and holds out his cupped hands urgently.

There's a kitten, already very small but dwarfed further by the large man holding it. It looks young; its eyes aren't even open yet.

You gasp, reaching out to take it from him. He transfers it to your smaller hands, looking relieved, as if he was worried he might accidentally hurt it. 

"Where did you find this? Was it alone?" You ask, petting the little thing. It wiggles and starts mewing. Thomas nods. "Hmm. This is tricky, Thomas," you start, not wanting to worry him, "It's really young; they can't be without their mother at this age. You're sure you didn't see any other kittens? A cat?"

He shakes his head, concern crossing his features. You pat his arm soothingly - the kitten starts crying loud now that you're not petting it anymore. You laugh.

"It's lively, that's good," Luda Mae chimes in, "must not've been alone for long. Do you think..." she trails off, looking to you, "he'd better put it back where he found it for now?"

Thomas looks like he can't believe the suggestion. He looks from his mother to you. You bite your lip in indecision. 

"She's right, actually, Thomas," you start, and the betrayal on his face would be comical if it wasn't so heartrending. "In case the mother was in the process of moving her litter and just hasn't gotten back for this one yet. We want to give her time to find it," you explain gently, so that he understands you're not just being heartless. 

The shock leaves his expression, but the concern doesn't - he starts fidgeting with his hands, clearly ill at ease with returning such a little thing to the wild without any protection.

"We'll keep checking on it, and in the meantime we can get some things prepared in case we need to take care of it," you offer, and then look to Luda Mae, "if it's okay that I take a break with the sheets."

"Of course," she says, waving away your concern. "Go put it back now, Tommy. You trust our guest, don't you?"

He nods immediately, and your heart warms.

It isn't easy to keep Thomas from checking on the kitten every five minutes. You explain that the mother will be too afraid to come get the kitten if people are hanging around, and he needs to give it time. You promise to go back before dusk, when the more dangerous animals come out. 

In the meantime, he helps you find things you would need to care for such a small kitten. A box, a heating pad, even some bottles you might be able use for feeding. It's not perfect, and it certainly would have been nice if there were a pet store around, but you figure you can make due with what you've gathered. 

You hope the mother comes back. You know a kitten that small is a big committment, and that they don't always make it despite all the work you put in. You don't even want to bring it up to him; you _certainly_ don't want him to experience it.

However, when you go back to check just before nightfall, the kitten is still there, mewing in discontent. You sigh. This will mean a difficult discussion, and possibly a difficult couple of weeks, but you can't help but smile at how excited Thomas seems, and how cute the little thing is.

You take it back to the house and set up its makeshift bed. Luda Mae has managed to find some goat's milk and some more suitable bottles, so at least you seem to have everything you need.

You sit across from him on the floor and show him how to warm up the milk and feed the kitten, and then how to keep it clean and help it eliminate. When it's all cared for, you lay it in his hands and let him hold it. He strokes down its back gently with the backs of his fingers. 

Watching him, you start smiling. You still need to warn him that this could end badly, but you decide to cross that bridge tomorrow.

"We'll keep checking on it, and in the meantime we can get some things prepared in case we need to take care of it," you offer, and then look to Luda Mae, "if it's okay that I take a break with the sheets."

"Of course," she says, waving away your concern. "Go put it back now, Tommy. You trust our guest, don't you?"

He nods immediately, and your heart warms.

It isn't easy to keep Thomas from checking on the kitten every five minutes. You explain that the mother will be too afraid to come get the kitten if people are hanging around, and he needs to give it time. You promise to go back before dusk, when the more dangerous animals come out. 

In the meantime, he helps you find things you would need to care for such a small kitten. A box, a heating pad, even some bottles you might be able use for feeding. It's not perfect, and it certainly would have been nice if there were a pet store around, but you figure you can make due with what you've gathered. 

You hope the mother comes back. You know a kitten that small is a big commitment, and that they don't always make it despite all the work you put in. You don't even want to bring it up to him; you _certainly_ don't want him to experience it.

However, when you go back to check just before nightfall, the kitten is still there, mewing in discontent. You sigh. This will mean a difficult discussion, and possibly a difficult couple of weeks, but you can't help but smile at how excited Thomas seems, and how cute the little thing is.

You take it back to the house and set up its makeshift bed. Luda Mae has managed to find some goat's milk and some more suitable bottles, so at least you seem to have everything you need.

You sit across from him on the floor and show him how to warm up the milk and feed the kitten, and then how to keep it clean and help it eliminate. When it's all cared for, you lay it in his hands and let him hold it. He strokes down its back gently with the backs of his fingers. 

Watching him, you start smiling. You still need to warn him that this could end badly, but you decide to cross that bridge tomorrow.


	8. Part 8

Night 43

Three nights passed and the kitten made it through each of them. It wasn't easy - it had to be kept warm constantly and fed every few hours. At first, you and Thomas took turns getting up during the night, since that seemed more efficient. Soon, however, you were getting up at the same time and meeting downstairs to take care of the little thing together. 

The interrupted sleeping schedule seemed to bother Thomas less than you; tonight you were taking it especially hard. You'd rolled out of bed when your alarm went off and dragged yourself downstairs, but you could barely keep your eyes open. He was already on the couch when you arrived, testing the temperature of the milk in the bottle. 

It had been difficult to convince him he could take care of the kitten without hurting it; his hands were so much bigger than the little cat. But you were patient, instructive, and encouraging, until eventually he was approaching it with confidence. He probably didn't even need you at this point, but it seemed unfair to let him do all the work.

You mumble a sleepy hello as you plop down next to him, reaching over to run a couple fingers over the tiny baby's head. It mews noisily; it's time to eat and it knows it. You swear it's doubled in size already, it's such a voracious eater. 

Thomas wraps the kitten in a little towel, like you showed him, and holds the bottle up to it. One second you're watching the little one devour its bottle, and the next your eyes are closed, and you're leaning to the side. Then the kitten mews again, and you open one eye to check on it - the bottle is suddenly finished, and you groggily realize you're using Thomas' shoulder as a pillow. 

You must've drifted off; you're pretty sure you should sit up, but your muscles don't believe you. You mutter something; you don't even know what. You're practically sleepwalking at this point. Thomas grumbles something wordless, gets the kitten all settled in its box again - then scoops you right up off the couch. 

That _does_ wake you up a bit - you gasp and throw your arms around his neck in a panic, but he seems to have a pretty secure hold on you. Your weariness takes over and you relax in his arms, resting your head against him again. 

He carries you all the way upstairs, and then tries to deposit you gently on your bed, only to find that your arms refuse to unlock from around his neck. You cling unconsciously, and it makes his heart pound, but he doesn't know what to do now. He tries again - no dice, your grip tightens again as soon as he leans down. He turns back toward the door, then to the bed again, looks to each side as if an answer might appear out of thin air. He looks down at you and ends up staring. 

You're definitely asleep, completely zonked out, and you look so peaceful and sweet - he thinks he should wake you up, but rejects the idea vehemently before it even fully forms; he won't, not when you're this tired, not when you look like that. 

That doesn't help with his dilemma, though. Eventually he turns and heads back downstairs, feeling uncomfortable in your room, alone, in the middle of the night. His mother raised a gentleman, after all, he just needs to figure out how to stay that way without waking you up - so he returns to the couch, sits back down, and keeps hold of you. He figures this is probably fine, and certainly the best option he can think of. He's certainly not going to complain about the proximity, even if it does make him a little nervous. At least it gives him an opportunity to look at you without feeling self-conscious. 

He observes your face until he can't keep his eyes open anymore, and then he drifts off too.

The kitten wakes you both a few hours later, screaming like only a hungry kitten can. Thomas wakes slowly, while you startle awake with a snort. You look down in confusion at the kitten, then at yourself, and finally up at him. You realize you must have fallen asleep, and he must have been reluctant to wake you.

"'m sorry," you mumble, still extremely groggy, and then yawn. "Didn't mean to fall asleep. You haven't been awake this whole time, I hope?"

He shakes his head. Well, good - it wasn't so bad then. It occurs to you that you should move off of him, but also that you're extremely warm and comfy. A tug-of-war takes place in your head but finally you rise, with his hands on your arms to steady you, and go to prepare a bottle. 

Thomas has the kitten wrapped up and ready to go when you return. It sees you and starts screaming again; you yawn, still feeling exhausted, and hand the bottle to Thomas.

"Calm down, daddy will feed you," you mumble, propping up your chin with one hand, eyes closing again. 

It takes a full five seconds for you to realize what you said, and suddenly you're _wide_ awake. You whip your head in his direction - even in the semi-darkness, even with a mask covering most of his face, you can tell he's gone completely scarlet. 

"Uh - wow. Sorry," you laugh, because somehow laughter seems like the proper response. "Can you handle this? Apparently I need some sleep or my brain is going to melt completely."

He nods, avoiding your gaze like the plague, and you retreat from the room while trying to decide how embarrassed you should feel.


	9. Part 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mildly NSFW

**Day 47**

Several days later, the kitten (discovered to be female; name pending) is still going strong but _you_ aren't - you're not sure what happened, but you wake up feeling as if you'd been hit by a truck. Luda Mae comes up to check on you when you don't come down for breakfast; she presses a hand to your forehead and declares you feverish before telling you to stay right where you are for the rest of the day.

You drift back off to sleep, and the next time you come around you have visitors waiting: Thomas, with some cold medicine and soup, plus your little bundle of fur.

You immediately hold your arms out for the kitten; he chuckles and hands her over. You tuck the mewling baby under your chin and curl up around her - she quiets down instantly, purring and snuggling into you. When you seem content to stay that way for now, Thomas sets the tray of food on your end-table and sits down on the floor beside the bed.

"Thanks," you croak, voice muffled by the kitten's fur as you nuzzle her gently, "this little one is the best medicine. Have you picked a name yet?"

He fishes around in his pocket, finally pulling out a little notepad and a pen - they'd been in with your things, and you'd handed them over in the hope that it would help him communicate with you. He seems to have taken to it, and you smile weakly while you watch him scribble.

He tears the sheet out and passes it to you. His handwriting is atrocious, but decipherable - you take a second to make sure you're reading it right, taking note of the question mark at the end. It seems he's giving you final say.

"Annabelle? That's perfect," you rasp - he looks pleased, and a little bashful.

Neither of you had mentioned your embarrassing moment from the other night, which you'd been thankful for at first - but then, after a few more days and nights of devoted care, you'd faced facts: or better or worse, you were definitely co-parenting this kitten. You'd decided to lean in, so you'd asked her father to pick her name.

Thomas and Annabelle hung around long enough for you to eat and take your medicine, and then you urged him out of the room so he didn't catch anything. He seemed reluctant to leave you, but finally gave in. The next two days passed in much the same way - he spent a lot of time in your room, just sitting while you ate, or slept, or rambled on hoarsely about the crazy fever dreams you were having.

Once, he fell asleep in his place on the floor - arms crossed on the mattress, head pillowed on top of them. His snoring woke you up, and then your squeaky, rasping laughter woke _him_ up.

**Day 50**

When you'd recovered enough to join the living again (with Luda Mae's blessing), things returned to normal... except for one thing. You'd started having vivid dreams, which wasn't so bad on its own - but these dreams were of the decidedly _wet_ variety.

For the third time in a row, you wake in the middle of the night. Phantom touches recede quickly from your skin, leaving an ache behind in their place. You sigh in exasperation, and then you slide a hand down your abdomen so that your fingers can sate the heat in your belly.

It's a _good_ orgasm, just like the rest have been - you have to cover your mouth to stifle the sounds you make as you come. While breathing through the aftershocks, you finally concede: you can no longer pretend you don't want him.

It makes things awkward, at least for _you_ , during your walk the next day.

You needed fresh air, and he was more than happy to escort you (you'd been hoping for some alone time, but you figured that was beyond reach in your situation). He even grabs your hand, like last time - he'd been more tactile lately (which might, actually, be the reason for your sudden problem), more comfortable reaching out to touch you. You didn't mind it, except when it started giving you impure thoughts.

He strides ahead of you, fingers interwoven with yours, making sure not to walk too fast. You watch the way his back and shoulders move beneath his T-shirt (is he trying to kill you? It's definitely too hot out for long sleeves but _damn_ ). When he stops, you don't even realize it until you collide with him.

He turns quickly to make sure you're okay, reaching out to steady your wobbling form. _God, it's like running into a brick wall._

You're drooling. _Snap out of it._

"Uh, sorry," you begin, fighting to come out of your hormonal fog, "want to sit for a bit? It's really warm out."

He nods, looking worried. He even presses a giant palm to your forehead after you both take a seat against a wooden fence.

"I'm fine. Not sick again," you reassure him; his hand moves to cup your cheek, but his gaze remains the same - fixed on yours, intense, and expressive in its concern.

You move before you think, rising up on your knees and practically falling forward to press your lips to his forehead.

He goes completely still, as if afraid to spook you - or maybe he's just startled. You're a little startled yourself, but instead of allowing your resolve to crumble, you double down. You plant a slow kiss on the cheek of his mask, then his brow, again, right above his left eye - he doesn't even seem to be breathing at this point - then the other cheek, then his jaw -

The trance breaks and he surges forward all at once, gathering you into his arms and effortlessly lifting you into his lap. You let him squeeze you against his chest, and you feel like you're going to melt.

Is this a bad idea? Yes. Is it going to worsen your whole sex-dream situation? Definitely.

Are you going to listen to reason and stop? _Absolutely not_.


	10. Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More NSFW

**Day 50** (continued)

You'd always been a fan of getting what you wanted. Who wasn't? In this case, however, what you wanted was in direct conflict with your better interests - you were leaving in less than two months, and getting this deeply involved could only end badly, for both of you.

You choose to ignore all of those thoughts as his hands slide from your waist up your back, then back down again, over your hips - and, tentatively, across your thighs. You're still peppering his face and throat with kisses, one hand tangled in his hair, one thrown over his shoulders - until you pull back, frustrated with his mask.

"I've seen you without that before, you know," you remind him, nearly panting, tapping the side of the mask. His eyes, previously half-lidded, widen. "It's okay if you don't want to take it off, but I'd really like to kiss you properly."

He seems to be fighting an internal war as you watch; you decide to let him deal with that on his own, and you return to trailing kisses under his jaw. His hands have even stopped moving - one is resting on your hip, the other on your thigh. 

Then suddenly they both leave you, and you pull back again in surprise. He's reaching behind his head to tug at the laces of his mask, with little success. You realize his hands are shaking. Actually, now that you look at him, you're not sure any of this is sitting well - he's red-faced with a sheen of perspiration, thrumming with tension all over, and a bit wild-eyed. He breathing is shaky and irregular. 

You feel instant regret. Maybe you were wrong to push like this - you knew it was a bad idea to come on too strong, that you needed to be patient with him, but you'd thought he was ready to take a step forward. You're reconsidering that now; you don't want him to feel uncomfortable, no matter how badly you'd like his tongue in your mouth.

"Wait," you say, softly, reaching up to grab his hands. His eyes meet yours, startled - he even jumps a little. He's a taut wire, and you wish you'd noticed sooner. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be pushing you into anything - we can head back in -"

You start to climb off of him and stand, but two sets of large fingers suddenly seize your waist, pulling you back down into his lap. Your gaze snaps up to meet his; he shakes his head vigorously.

"No... to what? No, you don't want to kiss?"

He huffs in frustration; one hand leaves you to pull the little notebook and pen out of his pocket. Before he pulls his other hand away to write, he gives you a squeeze and a pointed look. 

"I won't move, I promise," you assure him, throwing both hands up in surrender. He grabs the pen and scribbles quickly, then turns the notebook around so you can see it.

**Want to.**

You smile, but raise an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure? You seem... bothered."

His eyes shift away from yours, looking bashfully off to the side. Then he writes something else.

**Nervous.**

"Oh," you say, smile widening, trying not to laugh - you don't want him to think you're making fun of him - but you think you might implode from the wave of affection you're experiencing right now. You fight off the smile and point to his mask. "Then... I can take that off for you, if that's easier."

He snaps right back into looking incredibly anxious, but he nods slowly. 

You figure you'll start off easy; you settle back into his lap completely, cup his face - his hands fly back to your waist and grip you like a lifeline - and softly press your lips to the center of his forehead, then between his eyes, then above each one. He sighs, shuddering, and his hold on you loosens, turning back into a caress. 

Slowly, your fingers trail through his hair, toward the back of his head - your gentle attentions seem to be helping him stay grounded; possibly you were just too intense before. Once you reach the laces of his mask, you stop, pressing your forehead to his.

"Still okay?" You ask, locking on to deep blue eyes. He nods, so you start to untie. 

As soon as the mask falls to the ground, his face drops downward, out of your sight, hiding from you. You're not surprised - you understand this is hard for him. The amount of trust he's showing you is humbling, staggering, but he's still afraid. You feel like your heart is melting.

"It's okay, Thomas," you soothe, hands threading through his hair. You smile and plant a kiss on the top of his head. "Take your time, but kiss me eventually, okay? I'll close my eyes."

So you do, and then you just wait, holding him close. He takes a deep breath, then moves - surging forward at the same time he pulls you toward him with a giant hand on the back of your neck.

It's... definitely odd. You're true to your word and keep your eyes closed during the slow kisses (you're leading; it's already occurred to you that he's probably never kissed anyone before), but you can feel the tissue damage you'd seen briefly on that first day. The bridge of his nose seems to terminate almost immediately into a crater, and there's a texture indicating trauma around one side of his mouth - he's even missing a small chunk of lip on that side.

Turns out none of that makes kissing much more difficult than usual, and he's a quick learner - soon he's leaning in, ardently exploring your mouth, hands at your middle pulling you as close to him as possible. 

You get just a _little_ overzealous, end up grinding down into his lap - he sucks in a breath; for a moment, you _feel_ him through layers of clothing, and he feels _proportional_. 

Just as you pull back a bit, face burning hot (among other areas), you hear a distant shout.

"Thomas?" 

It's Luda Mae, calling from the house, and you both startle so badly that you would've fallen clear off his lap if he didn't have such a good hold on you. You whip your head around, scanning to make sure she can't see you from where she's at, as Thomas fumbles for his mask and starts putting it back on. 

It may have been her idea to keep you here, and it may be her intention that the two of you get together, but you still don't think she'd be too happy to catch you fornicating in the bushes.


	11. Part 11

Day 55

You've created a monster. Thomas now seems to think any moment not spent kissing you is a wasted one. You're fending him off left and right, since you're trying to maintain some level of decency, if not secrecy, around his family. Still... even though you haven't exactly talked about it, you seem to be an official couple now, and you can't say you're unhappy about it. 

Annabelle still needs care during the night, but less often - she's starting to eat soft food, so you're only rolling out of bed once per night now. Despite that, you're actually spending more time awake than before, because in the midst of the dark, silent house, Thomas knows it's his opportunity to trap you in his arms without resistance. So you end up spending half an hour or so making out like teenagers.

He's getting bolder as he gets used to the attention - trailing kisses over every inch of exposed skin and running his fingers over the rest. You weren't complaining; having his enormous hands pawing all over you really got your engine going. Each session of heavy petting got you closer and closer to ripping his clothes off and riding him like a tractor. Your dreams had gotten downright filthy and you'd taken more than a few cold showers lately.

Once, you'd been out watching Annabelle as she played, and as you passed the shed he'd reached out suddenly and pulled you in; it had startled you badly, but once you realized it was him, you melted into his kiss. He pressed you back against the wall; you saw an opportunity and jumped on it, literally - hopping up, you wrapped your arms around his neck, and he was quick on the uptake as usual, scooping his hands under your thighs right away.

He loved it, instantly, you could tell. Using his considerable strength to keep you suspended at just the right height for easy kissing? Negating the need for him to bend down, so he could have you pressed flush against his chest while he's at it? Not to mention, having your entire body tangled up with his - all things considered, you'd been impressed he hadn't keeled right over. Instead, he'd swallowed hard and released a shaky exhale, and both were music to your ears.

You'd stayed that way until you remembered that Annabelle was outside without supervision. It had taken a reminder about hawks to get him off you, at which point he'd dropped you almost _too_ quickly and run outside. 

He was addicting - still, you were trying not to move too fast, so you started using book club to distract you both... but that wasn't without its problems, either.

You were at the end of the book now, and you hadn't decided what to do about it. It seemed like a very bad idea to read it as is - you're pretty sure he's connected emotionally to the phantom (which hurts you to think about), and might even be finding parallels between the relationship in the book and the two of _you_ , and that ending. _.._ well. 

You had no other suitor in the picture, but you still didn't want to give him any ideas. He seemed the type to start thinking he wasn't worth your affection, that he should step away and let you go because that's what's best for you. You weren't going to abide that.

Which is why, today, you open the book with trepidation. He'd tried to pull you into his lap, but you didn't want him reading over your shoulder, so you convinced him to snuggle Annabelle instead (despite his protests that she's tiny and there's enough space for both of you) and sat down, crisscrossed, in front of him on the floor. You're sitting close enough that your knees are touching, so the kitten can walk back and forth between you, as you begin to read.

You tell him a different story - one where Erik wins over Christine with his affection and his kindness, and she chooses him willingly and finally - because she knows his heart is good and that's what matters, not his face, and not even the violence of his past - and they live happily ever after. It's stumbling and little messy, since you're making it up as you go, but he doesn't seem to notice - perhaps the feeling you're putting behind the words sells it, or maybe he just _wants_ to believe it - either way, when you reach the end you actually _say_ the words "happily ever after," because you feel like it's important to.

When you finally look up, his eyes are fixed on you, bright and shining. He gently places a sleeping Annabelle off to the side and reaches out to you; you're rocketing into his lap before he can even close a hand around you, throwing both your arms around his neck and pressing against him as tightly as possible. He squeezes you so hard that all the air in your lungs _whooshes_ out, so he relaxes his grip, just enough for you to breathe, and holds you that way. 

You run your fingers through his hair (very nice when it was clean, which it usually was lately; you suspect he's started taking better care of himself since you came along), giving him some time. Your heart aches; you hadn't been trying to make him emotional, but you supposed this vindicated your choice - the real ending probably would have broken his heart, and yours in turn.

Eventually you pull back, just enough to plant a soft kiss on his forehead. He allows it, but buries his face in your collarbones right after. Minutes pass, but you're content to stay this way until he's ready to let you go.


	12. Part 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW at the end

Day 60

You were trying not to think about it (which was irresponsible, you knew, but coping is coping) - but every time your mind wanders to your imminent departure, you start to feel... distressed. The truth is - as much as it complicates matters to admit - you don't want to leave him.

In fact, you've just come out of a particularly nasty nightmare where you woke up in your bed back home, and this had all been a dream. You'd come back here, in the dream, to try to find him - only to discover he'd never existed at all.

You'd been having a lot of dreams like this lately (including one where he'd chased you off with a chainsaw), but this one was so vivid and so heartbreaking that you sit up with tears on your face.

You couldn't stay still, didn't want to go back to sleep (if that was even possible) - you're already out of your room and down the hall with your hand on the door to his room before you've formed any kind of plan. Here, though, you pause. Was this okay - sneaking into his room in the dead of night? You were trying to take it slow. Would this tip you over the edge?

It doesn't matter, in the end, because the thought of going literally anywhere else in the whole world makes your stomach twist with anxiety. You feel sick, you feel like crying, and you need his arms around you, damn the consequences.

It occurs to you in a flash of insight that you've never felt like this about anyone before - this mushy and romantic. You weren't typically the head-in-the-clouds type. Maybe you'd just needed to meet the right person; maybe he was softening your edges.

You knock, twice, softly. The other two men had bedrooms downstairs, but Luda Mae's room was on this floor, and the last thing you needed was for her to come investigating and find you outside her son's door in your pajamas. A minute passes and you assume he's sleeping and didn't hear you knock - and now what: risk knocking louder, or give up? - but then the door creaks open slowly.

He's wearing a tank top. Your brain threatens to short circuit, but you look up into his confused, half-asleep face and power through.

"Ah, sorry, I just..." you tail off. You're overfull of feelings, to the point that they're spilling over the brim, but feeling them and articulating them are two different things. You're not sure where to start, and your tongue ties itself in a knot.

Luckily, it seems speech isn't a requirement. Thomas flashes a quick glance down the hall toward his mother's room and then reaches out to pull you gently but quickly inside, closing the door behind you.

The light coming in through the window is dim, but enough to make out his face. His mask is on, though haphazardly - he must sleep with it off - and his eyes are expressive with concern. Your vision starts to swim.

"Bad dream," you force out with a deep, shaky breath, "can't get back to sleep."

He presses a large palm against your cheek. A tear breaks loose and runs down your skin until it meets his hand, which then pulls away slightly. His thumb runs over the spot of moisture, before returning to trail, feather-light, across the tear-track on your face.

The tenderness of the gesture does you in - you spring forward, wrapping your arms around him as much as you can. He reciprocates, enveloping you and drawing you further into the room.

You end up in his bed, pressed against him, cradled in his embrace. He'd slid one hand under your shirt to run it up and down your spine, and the gentle but firm contact is wonderfully grounding. His mask is off again, and his face is buried in the top of your head. Your tears have stopped falling and dried, and your breathing has evened out. You're even starting to feel drowsy.

"Is it okay if I sleep here?" you mumble, slurring slightly. His answer is a soft, affirmative grunt. You know you're going to have to talk about what's troubling you soon, but you decide this is enough for right now - so you drift off without another thought.

The first time you wake up, you're laying mostly on top of him and he's snoring to rival a lawn mower. His hand is still in your shirt, which is more off than on at this point, and twisted around your torso. You're also burning hot.

"Jesus fuck, it's like snuggling up to the sun," you half whisper half growl, kicking off both the blanket and the sheet, but reluctant to move away from the hyperthermic man. You're still sleepy and the sun isn't up yet, so you fall back to sleep once you cool off a bit.

The next time you wake up, he's pressed along your back, one heavy arm thrown over your waist and bent at the elbow to stay inside your rucked-up shirt, hand laying against your chest. You're still hot; the blankets have ended up around your middle and tangled up in your legs - you suspect he woke up at some point and re-covered you, which was incredibly sweet but also likely to cause your death via heat stroke. He's still snoring, and closer to your ear this time, but the next thing you realize drives the sound out of your mind completely.

He's hard - you can feel him against your ass, despite the layers of clothing between you.

"Shit," you breathe, your own body reacting immediately, heating up. Again, you notice the sheer size of him, not that it's surprising. He's an enormous man. Still - you can't resist the urge to roll your hips, grinding back against him for a better feel. As you move, he ends up nestled between your legs, against the apex of your thighs.

You bite back a whimper and keep squirming against him, your mind swan-diving into the gutter.

Only once a hand closes over your hip do you realize the snoring has stopped.


	13. Part 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW ahead

**Day 60** (cont)

His hands trade places; the arm on top of you races down your side to grab your hip and pull you back against him even tighter, and the one underneath you crooks until it crosses your chest like a seatbelt, his large palm resting over your collarbone. 

Okay, so he just caught you rubbing against him like a cat in heat - not good. _Now what_ -

\- but your train of thought derails with a sharp gasp as he bucks, once, hard enough to jolt your entire body. 

" _Fuck_ \- Thomas -" you breathe, pleading, though for him to stop or keep going you're not sure. 

A deep growl rumbles against your back. You think you may be trembling slightly, but you don't get a chance to figure it out as he starts moving again - a slower, rhythmic roll of his hips. His iron grasp on the swell of your hip moves and angles you just how he wants; you place a hand over his, threading your fingers together, but otherwise go boneless, letting him have you. 

He continues to rut against you, finding friction between your thighs as the hand on your chest glides lower, until he can run his thumb back and forth across your quickly-hardening nipple. 

A quiet, tremulous moan escapes your lips as bolts of pleasure shoot through your core at his attentions, and your hips begin to rock back against him with fervor. He pinches firmly; your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a sudden cry.

His hand ceases its torment in favor of resting tightly against you, but then his other one slides over your hip and down across your abdomen until he's rubbing right where you're throbbing. 

For the first time tonight, his movements turn tentative. So your hand trails after his, guiding it until he gets the hang of things and has you arching into his touch (as much as possible, given still being at the mercy of the sturdy rocking of his hips).

His other hand travels upward again, finally coming to rest around your throat and base of your jaw - not squeezing, just gripping - as he bathes the nape of your neck in hot, panting breaths. 

It's too much; you've still got a hand clamped over your mouth to quiet the various sounds that just keep crawling up from your lungs, and he's starting to growl roughly against the back of your neck, and he feels so good between your legs - his fingers _and_ his length - and the way he's moving your body with his is intoxicating - 

You writhe against him, nails digging into his arm as the taut spring in your abdomen snaps violently. One loud cry slips out before you can bite it back like the ones that follow, which seems to yank him right over the edge along with you - he releases a long, low, rumbling groan against your nape, fingers tightening slightly on your jaw. 

His hips slow, then still, and his arms shift to wrap around your middle, holding you close as you both pant heavily. After a moment, he presses a kiss to the back of your neck; your eyelids flutter and your hand goes searching for his, entwining your fingers. 

You're drowsy and comfy and ready to fall back into a blissful sleep, until you notice how light the room is. 

"... what time is it?" you whisper urgently, just before you hear a door down the hall open and then close. 

You both bolt out of bed, feverishly straightening clothing and smoothing hair. It must not be _too_ late in the morning, because Luda Mae doesn't come to the door to check why Thomas isn't up yet - instead, you hear her footsteps enter the bathroom. 

Knowing you need to take advantage of this narrow window of opportunity, you whirl quickly, grabbing Thomas by the front of his shirt and pulling him into a brief, deep kiss before bolting from his room and back into your own.

You close your door behind you and lean against it, heartbeat hammering against your ribs. 

_Well... that happened._

You replay the whole scene in your head, face getting hotter by the second, as you listen to the bathroom door open again and Luda Mae go down the stairs. Then Thomas' door opens, then the bathroom door, and then you hear the shower start. You wait, mind drifting, until you hear the water cut off, and then leave your room to move down the hall. 

You're waiting outside the door when he exits; he looks surprised, and a little unsure, until you smile at him and beckon him closer. He leans down - his mask is on, but you do your best to kiss him through it. When you pull away, he sighs wistfully and cups your cheek, pressing his forehead to yours. Then he backs away and moves past you as you enter the bathroom to take a shower of your own. 

You're last to the breakfast table, but not late. Your eyes meet Thomas' for a second until his gaze shifts away shyly. He was always more self-conscious around his family. As you sit, Luda Mae smiles at you and sets a plate in front of you.

"Y'know, I was thinkin', if you two kids'd like to spend some extra time together today, these two can take up some extra chores," she says, gesturing to Hoyt and Monty, who both look about to protest, until she fixes them each with a stern glare. "A little alone time couldn't hurt."

You glance at Thomas, fighting a smile, thinking of all the _alone time_ you had earlier. He's turning slightly pink - trying to look at you and _anywhere_ else at the same time. 

"You're only sayin' that 'cause you want grandbabies," Hoyt mutters irritably. 

Thomas chokes on his water.


	14. Part 14

Day 60 (cont)

You decide to take Luda Mae up on her offer - Thomas is still blushing a bit as you drag him out of the house, passing by a scowling Hoyt without a second thought. 

You walk down a dirt road until the house is out of sight, and then you turn to look at Thomas. 

"Know anywhere nice we can sit for a while?" 

He considers for a moment, and then his hand tightens on yours and he takes the lead, pulling you off the road. 

You end up sitting together at the edge of a pond, under a tree, with your bare feet dangling in the water. It's too hot to snuggle properly, but you do lean against him and take his hand. For a while, you just relax and watch little things dart around in the water, but eventually you nudge him; he shifts his gaze to meet yours, and you peer up slyly through your eyelashes.

"Wanna go skinny dipping?" You tease with a lopsided grin and waggling eyebrows. He blushes a bit, but mostly he just snorts, chuckles quietly, and nudges you back - a little too firmly, and you nearly find yourself in the water anyway. Lightning fast, he grabs a handful of your shirt as you start to slide, making sure you stay put. He looks apologetic (his expressions are much easier to read without the mask, and you're so happy he doesn't wear it when you're alone together), but you laugh. 

"Don't worry, you're not getting rid of me that easily," you snicker, but then his hand lifts - his thumb traces from your chin over the line of your jaw, then up until he's cupping your cheek. Your eyes drift closed as you lean into his touch, and when you open them again you're struck by the look in his eyes; so many emotions swim through them that you have a hard time pinning one down. You see affection, and grief, and fear, and underneath it all: a question.

The peace and joy filling your heart vacate it in a rush, chased away by his expression and by your own anxieties, as you realize the time has come for the discussion you've been dreading. 

The words won't come to you, and even if they did you're sure your throat would close around them anyway, squeezing the life out of them like a snake. Where do you start? What do you say?

He beats you to it, shockingly - he stumbles slowly and quietly over the words, and they're so _rough_ , coated in dust from years of disuse, but his voice is deep with a rich timbre. Your heart thrills at the sound.

" _Are_ you... ?" He trails off, and the way he breaks eye contact makes you feel sure he won't complete the question - but he doesn't have to; you know what he's asking.

_**Are** you staying?_

Heat be damned, you throw yourself into his lap, wrapping both arms tightly around his neck and digging your nails into his shoulders. He hugs you back hard and buries his face in the side of your throat.

You're still not sure what to say, so you just start talking. 

"I'm not saying _no_ ," you begin in a whisper. You feel a little of the tension leave his frame. "But we _are_ overdue for a discussion, I think."

While you pause to consider your next words, his hands slide up and down your back in a soothing, repetitive motion. 

You tell him you don't want to leave him, even though you haven't known each other very long. You tell him he makes you happy, and that you want to make _him_ happy (at this, his grip on you tightens to the point of bruising). 

But then you talk about the life you had before coming here: your career, your family and friends, the day-to-day things you loved and always took for granted until they were nearly lost on the edge of his chainsaw that first fateful day - and how they've _been_ lost, after all, by your abduction (his arms have loosened around you, but his fingers dig into your sides now).

You trail off for a moment, steeling yourself for the hard part of the conversation, the part that _matters_ \- you pull back to look in his eyes, only to find them shining with sorrow. Your resolve rattles and weakens, but you can't stop now.

You hold his face in your hands and tell him he's good and sweet and kind, and his mother is wonderful, but his _uncle_ \- and his eyes, which had fluttered low under your praise, widen and shift at the mere mention of the man, falling under a shadow cast long and wide enough to send a chill up his spine even here, with you, in the sun. 

You take a breath, preparing to leap where you can see nothing below; you're about to pin both of your futures on the hope that your warmth would be enough to pull him out of that darkness.

"What's happening here is wrong - and it's not you, it's _him_ ," you say in a rush; his wide eyes jolt to yours, and his muscles tense suddenly like he wants to flee, but you're pinning him with your weight _and_ your gaze, "and it's not even _necessary_ \- he says you have to stay here, but that's a _lie_ \- "

With that, he really does try to pull you off of his lap, grabbing your hips, but you wind your fingers into his hair and throw your weight forward until your forehead is pressed against his, your eyes focused intensely on the deep blue ones inches away from you.

"I _love_ you, Thomas," you breathe out softly and tremulously, letting the words ghost gently over his face. He freezes, staring back at you, barely breathing, eyes bright, "but you have to understand I can't stay here. I want you to come back with me - you and your mother. Please consider it, that's all I'm asking. I don't want to leave you, and I sure as _hell_ don't want to leave you _here_."

You watch as a couple of tears spill over, running down his face until you brush them away with your thumbs. You pull him closer and kiss him sweetly until they stop.


	15. Part 15

Day 67

You bolt awake in the middle of the night, unsure why until the roar of a chainsaw cuts through your half-asleep fog. You remain frozen, breathing with forced calm, until a shrill scream rips through the air, and then you're on your feet and out the door before you can think.

You burst out of the front door and nearly trip over the body on the porch. It's crumpled awkwardly, mangled, and staring. You look away quickly, but not in time to miss the way some of the fingers are twitching. You take a deep, shaky breath and then leave the porch, skirting the growing puddle of blood. 

That corpse was fresh, and there are still screams cutting through the air at intervals. You sprint toward the sound, heart pounding, legs fighting to disobey as you're flooded with dread and adrenaline. 

The sounds, the dead body, the very feeling in the air - it's all conspiring to bring back the memories of your own recent experience at the other end of the chainsaw. You haven't been truly afraid since that first day, but now the fear is returning, just as raw as it was then. You don't know what you can do, but you have to do _something_. If it comes down to it, well - you've squared off against this family once before. 

Your legs and lungs are burning by the time you round the side of the house. The screaming woman is on the ground, pinned. Hoyt is tying her wrists together. He turns to look at you just before you tackle him to the ground. 

You rise again quickly, while he's trying to recover the wind you knocked out of him - the woman thrashes to her feet, breaking out of her bonds, and bolts. You kick Hoyt in the ribs for good measure and follow her. 

You catch up just as she's about to pass the barn - the worst place to be, based on what you were hearing from this direction earlier. You manage to grab her, yanking her away from the entrance and against the wall, hand over her mouth. She tries to scream anyway, tries to kick and break your hold.

"Stop - it's me, from a minute ago! I'm trying to help you but - " the rest of your sentence is drowned out by the deafening sound of a chainsaw from inside the barn, accompanied by horrible screaming. The woman stops struggling; she looks like her legs are going to give out. You take firm hold of her, pulling her away from the barn as quickly and quietly as her wobbly gait will allow. 

You duck into the small shed between the barn and the house. She collapses in tears as soon as you get her inside. 

"How many of you are there?" You ask urgently, grabbing a shovel from the corner (it crosses your mind fleetingly that this is probably the same one you used to defend yourself on your first day here). 

"F-four," she sobs. 

You know one is dead. Whoever was in the barn likely is, too. So that leaves one more you have to find. 

"I need you to stay here while I look for your friend...s," you almost forget to make it plural. The woman cries harder, clutches at your leg.

"Don't leave me, don't -"

You crouch down to her level, take her hands in yours, and look her in the eyes.

"This is the safest place for you. If you stay quiet, no one will find you. I can get you guys out of here, but you have to let me go for now."

She slowly stops crying and releases her hold on your wrists. You direct her to a pile of equipment, then cover her with a tarp for good measure. You stand and grab your shovel again before heading cautiously out the door. 

You quickly put distance between yourself and the shed; you don't want to draw any attention there, if you happen to be seen. You scan the area, listening hard, to catch any sign of the other (hopefully) living outsider. There weren't a ton of places to hide outside the house, and what's more - where are Hoyt and Thomas? 

You're considering checking the house when the sudden roar of a chainsaw startles you, heart jumping into your throat. It sounds like it's coming from the barn again, but - this time there's a scream. You bolt, rushing toward the structure on exhausted legs.

You arrive just in time to throw yourself between the saw chain and the intended victim. The weapon gets frighteningly close, but Thomas yanks back on it as soon as he sees you - even turning sideways to put it on the other side of him, as far away from you as possible. He starts to reach out to you with one hand, stops, flexes it. Unsure.

"You know I can't let you do this," you have to shout to be heard over the chainsaw, but you're also breathing hard from the exertion. Your voice doesn't come out as strong as you would have liked. You hope instead that the intense eye contact is good enough. "Turn that off."

Thomas fidgets, shuffling his feet. Finally he cuts the power on the thing, and the resulting flood of silence is almost deafening on its own. Then the whimpering starts - you turn to look at the person behind you. Their arm is cut badly, bleeding freely. They look like they're in shock, face wet with tears, staring past both of you to the weapon in Thomas' hands. You return your gaze to the man in front of you. 

"Please put that down," you say, gently this time. "I don't like it. It scares me." 

Not _him_ \- _he_ doesn't scare you, and you want him to know that, even as you try your hardest to get these people out of this alive. As you try to get _him_ out of this in one psychological piece.

You see his eyes widen a bit, and he starts to lower the chainsaw to the ground - 

"I best not be catchin' you backin' down, boy," Hoyt snarls suddenly from the doorway. Thomas startles, immediately tightening his grip on the handle of the weapon. You turn to glare at the older man hatefully; he glares right back. "'Specially not for _this_ little piece of shit."


	16. Part 16

The anger rises like a flash flood, threatening to drown you, but you fight against it. It's crucial to play this correctly, and you know it. You step closer to Thomas, gently placing a hand over his as it tightens on the chainsaw. His gaze flickers to yours, wide and uncertain; you soothingly run your thumb back and forth across his knuckles. 

"Get away from him, homewrecker," Hoyt spits. You glare, but hold your tongue as well as your position. "C'mon, Tommy, that tramp don't belong here. They'll spell the end of this family, mark my words - is a little tail really worth all this?"

You bite down on your tongue hard enough to draw blood, mind working overtime to put together a response more constructive than _go to hell, you ugly piece of shit_. You give up on that quickly, realizing there's no point trying to talk sense into Hoyt - instead, you focus on Thomas. 

"That's not true," you start. His fingers twitch beneath yours as his eyes dart back and forth between you and his father-figure. "You know I wouldn't hurt you, or Luda Mae. He's just trying to make you do what _he_ wants, as always." You gesture behind you, to the woman on the floor, who is looking paler by the second. "This isn't _right_ , and it doesn't have to be this way - "

" _Enough_ , you little serpent," Hoyt snarls, and draws a pistol - he points it at you, and the world slows to a crawl, but before you can formulate any kind of plan, Thomas has already stepped between you and the weapon. You hear Hoyt sputter, bite out, "move, boy!"

" _ **No**_ ," Thomas growls, rough and low, and you've never heard a single word sound so forceful, so _angry_. Your heart wrenches; in the silence that follows the word, you lean forward, burying your fingers in his shirt and pressing your forehead between his shoulder blades. 

His next breath lasts for 3 seconds, from inhale to exhale; during that brief time you allow yourself to go still and quiet, drinking in every drop of love - and safety, and comfort, and courage - that he fills you with. You use that wave to lift yourself out of your exhaustion and your fear, steeling your heart and nerves for whatever would follow in these pre-dawn hours. 

Then the moment is over, and Hoyt is shouting, and Thomas is surging toward him as your hand falls away from his shirt, and you're whirling to grab at the woman on the ground, dragging her up and out of the barn as quickly as her wobbly legs will allow.

Hoyt's shouted expletives (directed at Thomas) and venomous slurs (directed at you) fade from your hearing as you approach the shed, trying to make sure no one sees you. You fall through the door with the woman under your arm and close it quickly behind you. The woman from earlier abandons her hiding place to run forward and throw her arms around her injured friend, sobbing. 

You stay just long enough to bandage her wound before leaving again. You pause, listening for a moment before heading toward the house. You hadn't seen a corpse in the barn, like you expected - the fourth person might still be alive. In any case, there's only one place left to check, and you're queasy at the thought.

The house is silent and dark as you enter, moving immediately to the basement stairs, as quietly as possible. You listen as you descend, but the air is still here, too. You reach the bottom without incident. Luckily, since you wouldn't have known where to find it, the light is already on down here. Unluckily, the sight before you is an unwelcome one. 

The body from earlier now hangs by a hook in the gloom, staring lifelessly. Next to it, also on a hook but horrifyingly alive, is the fourth party member you've been seeking. He appears to be drifting in and out of consciousness, and even in the dim light you can make out the pallor of his skin. You can't see any wounds, but you _can_ see the large amount of blood pooling beneath him. Your eyes close with a sigh. There's nothing you can do for this one.

Well, _almost_ nothing. You can do what you hope someone would've done for you and your friends if you'd met this fate two months ago.

Rather than struggle trying to get him off the hook, you remove the apparatus from its place entirely. You lower him to the floor as gently as possible; he rouses a bit with a painful grunt, but soon you have him lying in your lap, on his side so that nothing touches the iron still embedded in his back. 

His breathing is shallow and irregular. So is his pulse. You know he doesn't have long, but at least he won't die alone.

You run your fingers gently across his scalp. You're not usually much of a singer, but you give it your best shot - something simple and soothing, melody drifting quietly through the cool air as you try to comfort the dying man. By the time he releases his final shuddering breath, you're trying to sing through the lump in your throat, tears running endlessly down your face. You sound _broken_ , and you're relieved neither of you has to listen to it anymore. 

Once the silence returns, you hear the shifting of a footstep. Looking up quickly, heart pounding, you find Thomas. His hands are fidgeting worse than you've ever seen, and when he sees you notice him, he cowers away as if you'd raised a hand to him.

You gently lay the dead man on the floor and stand up; Thomas stumbles backward as you approach him, but you reach out and grab his wrist.

"Stop, I'm - " a sob breaks your sentence - "I'm not mad at- at _you_ ," you reassure, trying to stem your tears. It's not working.

Thomas reaches out a shaky hand, slowly, like he's afraid his touch will break you. You're not sure that it won't - you feel about that fragile. He softly runs the pad of his thumb across your cheek, intercepting a tear as it falls. You look up at him. You've never seen anyone look so lost; it sends a spike through your heart.

"Hold me?" You barely manage to croak before breaking into a fit of sobs, and almost immediately he's scooping you up, wrapping you tightly in his arms as your feelings overflow and spill onto the bloodstained floor.


	17. Part 17

Thomas seems distracted as he leads you back to the main floor; in the kitchen, he gestures for you to wait, then disappears upstairs. 

He's gone long enough to make you anxious, though considering your current emotional state, that's not saying much. Additionally, you're starting to wonder what's become of Hoyt - and then, as if you'd summoned him, he tumbles through the door.

He's bleeding from a cut at his hairline, as well as from his nose; crimson runs down his face and he's got one eye closed against it.

He lunges as soon as he sees you, but you deflect his reaching arms, sending him crashing against the wall. A few decorations come loose and follow him to the floor, along with a mason jar he grabbed on his way down.

Altogether, it makes quite a bit of noise, especially once he clambers up and starts shouting at you. 

"You may have Tommy wrapped 'round your finger, but he ain't here _now_ , is he?" He growls, leaning toward you threateningly.

"I can kick your ass perfectly well on my own, or have you forgotten?" You snarl back; you're tired, stressed, traumatized, and you've had enough of _everything_ , and if punching Hoyt would help you feel better, you weren't going to argue.

You don't get the chance, however, as Luda Mae appears in the doorway wearing her nightgown and a frazzled expression. 

" _What_ on God's green earth - "

Hoyt starts to spew something belligerent about you, but you run up to her and take her by the arm.

"We've got to get out of here, you and me and Thomas - "

"Listen to that, tryin' to come between the family, just like I - "

You swat absently at Hoyt; he backs off, flinching. Luda Mae is looking back and forth between the two of you, alarm plain on her face and growing by the second.

"Please, this can't go on, you have to - "

Hoyt cuts in again, gesturing to you and taking an accusatory tone with Luda Mae.

" _You_ started this, you and that harebrained scheme to - "

Thomas enters the room, holding a cardboard box. All three of you turn towards him, suddenly struck dumb. He walks forward and shoves the box at you. You take it, looking up at him in confusion. 

"What - "

" **Go,** " he rasps, pointing toward the door. Your eyes widen, shock tying up your tongue. He's letting you go? But you don't _want_ to go, not without _him_ , not if -- but as you search his eyes, you find them cold and hard. It dawns on you, the realization a heavy weight dropped into your gut, making you feel leaden and sick: he's not letting you _escape_ , he's _kicking you out_.

Whatever spell had kept everyone quiet suddenly breaks; you and Luda Mae start to plead at the same time, as Hoyt _whoops_ triumphantly. 

"Thomas, I don't understand - " you start, floundering; Luda Mae reaches over and places a comforting hand on your arm.

"Tommy, please, what's - "

"There you go, boy! About time - " Hoyt is cut off as Luda Mae rounds on him, and they descend into a shouting match, but their voices are drowned out in your mind by his single syllable, echoing endlessly off the walls of your skull. He can't _possibly_ mean it - he was _just_ holding you, downstairs - why would he suddenly - 

You reel, unable to make your feet move one direction or the other. Thomas steps forward again, pushing at the box in your hands, moving you backwards. 

"Wait, Thomas," you push back against him, unwilling to be forced out of the house like this, but he just gets rougher in response - even ignoring his mother's attempts to stop him - herding you toward the door, throwing it open, and _shoving_ you out onto the porch. You nearly lose your balance; you rush back toward the door as soon as you regain your footing, only to find it closed, and locked. 

"Wait!" You cry, and your voice breaks, and you realize you're having a hard time seeing through your tears - but for a moment, the last moment you see him through the door's window before he walks away, his eyes look absolutely heartbroken. 

You keep trying the door handle, start banging on the door - you can hear Luda Mae shouting inside the house, and you're hoping she can calm him down, change his mind, figure out what the hell changed between the basement and now - 

And then you hear the chainsaw kick to life behind the door, and the sound fills your overwrought heart and mind with so much fear and panic that you turn and bolt from the house.

You stumble your way to the shed, clutching the box to your chest - it's slightly too big to hold comfortably, and it's unwieldy, but it hasn't occurred to you to set it down - and planning to get the survivors out of here, at least... only to find that there _aren't_ any.

The door swings open to reveal two dead women with bullet holes in their foreheads. Hoyt must have found them.

At least he'd been in too big of a rush to draw it out, you think, but that doesn't stop the harsh sob from breaking free of your throat, or the trembling of your legs, or the first cries of a new-born and _terrible_ guilt in your heart.

You don't remember making your way down the drive, and you don't remember finding a truck with the keys still in it, but sometime later you come to yourself pulled over on the side of the road, and immediately break down sobbing into the steering wheel.

You think you might just go ahead and die right here, like this - but then there's a tiny _mew_ from the box in the seat next to you. 

You undo the cardboard flaps and out pops Annabelle, looking terrified. You sob once more and reach out for her, holding her to your chest as your breathing steadies. Suddenly you feel more clear-headed; at the very least, you needed to take care of her, get her somewhere safe. You start the truck again.

You manage to make it to the next town without running out of gas, but just barely. You'd found your wallet and other belongings in the box with the kitten, so you're able to fill the tank and buy a little food for both of you before setting out again. 

At the culmination of a long and grueling drive, you finally walk into your apartment for the first time in two months - everything inside it is exactly the same as you left it, except for _you_.


	18. Part 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, and then an epilogue, and then it's over! ;-; Thanks for the comments and the kudos, I'm happy to hear you guys are enjoying the story. As always, feel free to stop in and say hi on Tumblr (URL: stay-outta-my-blood-circle); I'm starting an interactive, choose-your-own-adventure style story once this one is over, so stay tuned for that if you're interested! (Plus I open for requests off and on.)

**Day 72**

Annabelle settles into the apartment quickly, other than being grumpy about having to stay inside. Your friends and family had taken care of the place while you were gone - your plants were still alive and everything. Once you'd regained enough presence of mind to let them know you were back, they'd come right over, only to be thoroughly confused by your despair over your "escape." Your sister stayed the longest, and listened the most openly. Eventually, though, you needed some alone time.

You were a wreck. It was less like breaking up and more like mourning (although the two aren't that different). You struggled to get out of bed, to clean up around the house, even taking care of your basic needs was difficult - if not for Annabelle, you're not sure you would have managed any of it.

It felt so horribly similar to that recurring nightmare you'd been having - you were starting to believe, more and more as time passed, that if you were to try going back, you'd find out the place had never existed... that _he'd_ never existed.

Eventually, you get around to unpacking that box he sent with you. It's the stuff you'd had with you since your arrival, plus the extra books and things you'd been given while there - pulling out the worn copy of _Phantom_ sends a painful jolt through your heart. You're actually debating throwing it away so you don't have to look at it - though that prospect hurts you as well - but you notice it seems to have something stuck between the pages at the end.

Come to think of it - it seems more worn than it _should_ be. The spine is cracked and a few pages are dog-eared; you never allow those things to happen to your books. It wasn't like this the last time you saw it... and when _had_ you last seen it? Had it been on your - _the_ \- desk, when you left? That's where you'd put it, but now you can't visualize it being there.

You open it up, expecting some kind of bug or something, only to find a pressed bluebonnet. On the page, below the last line of text, there's a messy scrawl:

**_Liked your ending better._ **

Quickly, you can't make out the words anymore - your vision blurs as your eyes fill with tears. A sob breaks loose, loud enough to startle Annabelle. You lay the book on the table and brace yourself against it as you cry harder than you have since you got home.

You end up going to bed early, but you can't sleep. He'd taken the book to re-read it, you bet, and found out you'd changed the ending. Had that had anything to do with his behavior, that last night?

_"He seemed the type to start thinking he wasn't worth your affection, that he should step away and let you go because that's what's best for you."_

You'd thought that, then, but not entirely seriously. Had you been right, after all? The way you'd broken down in the basement with the dying man wouldn't have helped - in fact, you'd bet that'd been the final nail in the coffin. It would explain why he looked so heartbroken as he was kicking you out.

You abruptly sit up in bed as the pieces fall into place in your mind. Annabelle complains from your pillow.

"He can't just send us away for our own good, it's not up to him," you growl - you're getting angry, which is a definite upgrade from sad. Annabelle blinks slowly up at you, then yawns. You jump out of bed, sending covers flying, earning another mewling complaint from the cat. You pull out a duffel bag and run around the room, throwing things into it and grumbling under your breath like a lunatic.

You'll pack now, try to sleep a bit, call your sister in the morning to take care of the cat, and then -

You cup Annabelle's tiny, fluffy face in your hands (she's sleepy enough to allow this) so you can look her in the eyes -

"I'm going to go kick your father's ass."

She starts purring.

**Day 73**

You think your sister would have stopped you if she'd been there, but you’d left before she’d arrived. The drive back is easier; anger doesn't drain a person quite as much as sadness does, and the right kind of anger can even act as fuel.

It's difficult to find your way back - that nightmare rears its ugly head - but you manage, eventually, and then you're pulling up to the little shop off the highway where all of this started.

You enter, hackles raised - Luda Mae appears to be the only one here, and she gasps when she sees you.

" _Oh_ , honey!" She rushes around the counter, nearly knocking over a display in her haste. She takes both your hands in hers; you can see she's already starting to tear up. You're happy to see _her_ , too, all told. "I'm so glad you're here - I'm so sorry 'bout everythin' - "

She dissolves into tears, and you put an arm around her shoulders.

"It's not your fault, and I think I understand. _Kind of_ ," you amend, scowling, until she looks back up at you and your face softens. "How's Thomas?"

She starts wringing her hands.

"Oh, sweetheart - not well. Not well at all," she cuts off with a sob. You guide her back into her seat behind the counter. "Don't know what he was thinkin'," she continues, after she composes herself somewhat, "he's missin' you terribly. He's just been a mess. Barely eatin' or sleepin' -" another sob breaks loose, though her tears have mostly stopped.

"Well, we're in the same boat, then," you mutter, and Luda Mae shoots you a compassionate look. "Can you get me into the house? I need to talk to him - or maybe _yell_ at him, we'll see."

She chuckles as she dabs at her eyes with a tissue.

"There's that fire - always liked that about you, dear. He needs it, that's for sure." She blows her nose, then meets your determined gaze. "And yes, I'll get you into that house if I gotta knock Charlie out with a fryin’ pan to do it."

"Hey," you smile (for the first time in days, no less), "you don't get to have _all_ the fun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know - the whole “pushing you away for your own good” thing. Whether it’s a time-honored trope or an overused cliche is up to you, but I’m drawing both Beauty and the Beast and Phantom of the Opera parallels with this story, and it’s a component of each. I do feel like he’d be the type, but our reader isn’t going down without a fight.


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